The 240 in the Backyard
by Mach1av3ll1an
Summary: There has always been a constant throughout Ryan Cooper's life. (one-shot) (NFS Prostreet Fanfic)


' _ **Ello guys!**_

 _ **As you can tell, this is a Need for Speed ProStreet fanfic.**_

 _ **(Before you close this fic, as you may have noticed the copious amounts of fanfics out there detailing how exactly the author completed career mode, I have a solution for that. Sorta. [hopefully, it'll work])**_

 _ **Another thing to note is that I will mainly be using the "prologue" 240SX, as in the first two cutscenes of career mode, Ryan's S13 has the aftermarket rims for both the front and rear, and it does seem rather illogical to only use the modified (and wider) wheels at the front and to instead use the stock wheels at the back in grip mode, and screams drifting instead (and he could've afforded it as well: he did start off with 10 grand after all). Also, in the first of said cutscenes, the 240 raced a Camaro in a drag race, in which it had a turbo, as there was a distinct blow-off noise emanated from it as it shifted up. Because of this, I will increase the base power of said 240, as beating a Camaro in a drag race is no easy feat, especially since it occurred later on in their run, where the little Japanese hatch was able to easily catch-up after the initial launch.**_

 _ **I will also make some changes where I see fit to for the sake of realism.**_

 _ **Additionally, I'm still a mediocre writer in general, and this story hasn't been Beta'd, so constructive criticism and clear reviews will be highly appreciated.**_

 _ **Well then, with that cleared up, let's get started!**_

* * *

 **The 240 in the Backyard**

 _March 19_ _th_ _, 1989_

The newly-christened 'Ryan Cooper' sat in the back seat of a Toyota Land Cruiser, which, according to his parents, was a "rental" (a word which little Ryan did not understand).

It was the first time he was presented with a sight that didn't align with the multi-coloured walls of the nursery or the stark-white surfaces which plagued all existing hospitals.

Additionally, It would also be the first time he would visit his "home", or so he was told. When his family left the hospital, his parents had a heated argument about "where we're going" (again, he didn't understand a single word of what his parents were saying).

Eventually, his parents decided on "picking up the new car" first.

The last spoken word within that sentence aroused Ryan's attention. Despite his poor memory, he was able to recall a long dispute between his two parents involving complex phrases such as, "WHY DO YOU SPEND SO MUCH MONEY ON CARS!" and "THIS IS THE LAST TIME, YOU HEAR?! AFTER I GET THIS CAR AND MODIFY IT, I'M DONE!"

Hearing their bickering, Ryan was virtually able to taste the almost-palpable sense of animosity, which resided in the dark void between his two clashing parents.

Unable to voice his frustration and despair at their endless quarrelling, he began sobbing due to his inability to properly express his own emotions, his tears leaving tracks on his cheeks. That effectively silenced them, forcing them to tend to him, their previous argument seemingly forgotten.

His instincts flared, telling him that his parents weren't taking him home immediately, but he didn't understand any of his parents' words (he had a limited vocabulary. After all, he was born about a month ago), so he just assumed that his instincts were incorrect and _they were_ heading home, despite what his instincts suggested.

From what his parents told him, "home" was supposed to be "warm, comforting, relaxing" and also "the best place in the world". While (for the hundredth time) he didn't understand these spoken phrases, their tones of voice suggested to him that whatever "home" was supposed to be, it would be infinitely greater (in all respects) than the hospital he had just exited moments prior and the nursery it contained within.

From his knowledge, what his parents claimed what "home" completely contrasted and eclipsed the frosty atmosphere that had permeated throughout the car, the uncomfortable silence all but restoring the perpetual peacefulness contained within the nursery he used to reside in.

As the Land Cruiser made a right turn, Ryan noticed that his father's grim expression slowly began to twist, first morphing into a slight smile, then to a massive grin, excitement practically radiating off the man.

However, his mother's expression only seemed to darken as they approached what seemed to be their final destination.

Not a single word was exchanged when the car finally halted in its tracks, nor when his father exited the car. This all changed when the man unbuckled the toddler seated in the backseat, clearly attempting to take the child with him.

The moment his father touched him, he heard his mother yell, "I am NOT allowing you to involve MY son in your expensive and pitiful hobbies!"

However, his father didn't heed his mother's words, and carried him bridal style towards the main entrance of the building, closing the doors behind him and walking toward a Nissan dealership.

The man carried him to the reception desk and set him down on the table, proceeding to whisper, "Just wait here for a second, little guy. Just gotta do some paperwork."

During "paperwork", he saw his father hand back a sheet filled with lines and tiny boxes (of "paper", if memory serves), saying he simply wanted the "top-of-the-line model", and didn't care about "what the colour was", as long as it was "in stock".

If this was "home", it certainly differed a lot from what little Ryan was expecting. _Perhaps it isn't home, and we're simply doing a small detour._ However, he wasn't entirely sure if his assumption was correct, as he couldn't dismiss the possibility that the reason why his father was so excited was that they were about to reach home.

Or perhaps they _were_ already at home.

However, that still begs the question: Why was his mother _against_ coming here? (or at least, that was what Ryan rationally thought may explain his mother's anger, though he was still unsure)

A voice broke him out of his musings.

"Sir, your car should be parked outside. Thank you for your purchase." the person on the other side of the desk said, adorning a (clearly) fake smile on their face.

His father grinned, and took what seemed to be a thin stick with jagged edges attached to a small rectangle off the counter, picked Ryan up, and walked towards the entrance.

As soon as they exited the set of doors, a greenish shape immediately caught his attention. That was partially due to the slightly unorthodox shade of green (or was it blue? Somehow, it seemed like a mixture of both, though it seemed to be slightly more green than blue) the... _thing_ was painted in (the fact that Ryan didn't recall seeing it when they entered the building certainly emphasised this).

However, his attention was mostly drawn to the aura that almost seemed to radiate off the surface of the…" _car"_ , or whatever the scrawny man behind the desk called it.

The aura felt...warm, comforting (later on, when he was a child, he had pointed this out to his parents, and they had looked at him blankly, with confusion clouding their expressions, and his mother placing a hand on his shoulder as if she was placating a deluded man).

After his father entered the car, placed him on the passenger seat and did up the seatbelt for him, Ryan's tiny head turned to the left, looking up at the man beside him.

"Dada…" Ryan asked, still unable to form proper words. "Home?"

For a moment, his daddy looked shocked, surprised even (he took pride in the fact that he was able to understand more words than a week ago, as he had learnt those two words recently).

Slowly, but surely, the utter bewilderment present on the man's face contorted into a grin.

The man ruffled his son's thin wisps of hair, and said, "Indeed chum, indeed..."

* * *

 _October 20_ _th_ _, 1998_

"An era-defining genius", experts called him.

They explained to both Ryan and his mother about how his genius-level intellect was why he was able to understand a large range of different words and trace (with his fingers) full sentences with proper grammar by a month after his birth.

Apparently, he had an IQ of approximately 200 (give or take a few).

It was probably the reason why he was able to complete his finals for an International Baccalaureate certificate at the age of six.

Said "experts" couldn't discover the source of his intelligence. With both his parents having IQs in the low 100s, they claimed it wasn't due to genetics, and were completely stumped.

If his father was still around, he definitely would've attacked his son with a bear hug, proud of something he didn't put any effort into.

However, ever since the fatal car accident back in the early-90s, his father just wasn't around anymore.

 _In a better place_ , so to speak.

After this, Ryan's mother kept a close eye on the 240sx, making sure to rig the small garage with an expensive alarm system if his dad ever decided to take it out for "midnight drives" (meaning: street racing). Secretly, the man had arranged a backroom deal with a dealer in the black market to buy a black EG6 (a fifth-generation Honda Civic), which he parked in his friend's garage in order to avoid suspicion from (and a few arguments with) his mother.

After he did this, surprisingly, he actually confessed to Ryan about it. However, he did tell him that since he hoped that Ryan would own and drive the 240sx sometime in the future, he wouldn't hesitate to spend more on the S13 than his Civic.

For multiple years, Ryan helped his father modify and build-up their 240 (and the Civic as well, albeit occasionally), stripping the car of unnecessary components and buying carbon fibre parts for weight reduction (the latter was rather costly, but worth it). They also modified the suspension rather extensively, replacing pretty much all the original parts. At the time, they focused on handling and response, as opposed to outright power and torque.

When his mother found out about what they did in the late hours of the night, she had gone on an absolute rampage, using a crowbar to smash several parts of the car in (which is how Ryan learnt how strong his mother was. In the physical sense, at least). Later on, when Ryan and his father checked the car for damage, luckily, there was no sign of chassis damage. Of course, several parts (the bonnet, both bumpers, the front-left fender, the passenger door, and window) had to be sourced and replaced, with all of the said parts coming in different colours.

While they could've easily painted the parts (meaning: paying someone else to do it), his father firmly refused the proposal, and when the young boy questioned his decision, he grinned, claiming they were "battle scars", and that they should be cherished (his father had a talent for making every situation and scenario seem light-hearted).

Those were happier times.

It all changed one day. When he walked downstairs in the morning, yawning and stretching as he prepared for school, he froze when he heard the news commentator.

"...on other news, at two o'clock this morning, a black Honda Civic moving at 140 miles per hour on the highway crashed head-first into a lorry. The crash was..."

His immediately eyes widened to a comical degree and began sprinting towards the living room, hoping to God the Civic in question was owned by someone else.

However, as it seemed, he had no such luck.

As soon as the television screen came into his line of sight, a camera shot taken from behind the rear-right of the Civic was shown.

Dread began to build-up behind his barely-kept façade.

Unless someone decided to perfectly replicate the sticker placement on his father's EG6, it had definitely been his dad.

The "Got Rice?" sticker he had jokingly stuck beside the straight-piped exhaust one day ago stared hauntingly back at him.

That was most definitely an unexpected occurrence.

Unsurprisingly, it was also an unwelcome one, at that.

However, what he found most surprising about the whole situation was his mother's reaction. After the news mentioned who the driver of the EG6 really was, his mother only mentioned two words, "Good riddance."

After that, Ryan broke into tears.

According to the news, prior to the fateful collision, the truck driver had been driving for the last fifteen hours with only small breaks in between, and as a result, was extremely fatigued.

Just as his father approached the man's truck, said truck driver began to space out momentarily, inadvertently swerving to the left.

Right into the path of his dad's Civic.

From what Ryan could discern from the crash photos, his father was driving in the left lane, while the truck driver was originally two lanes to the right, just beside the guardrail, so when he swerved to the left, he left little-to-no room for error for his dad, who had attempted to reach the gap between the front of the lorry and the guardrail.

Obviously, judging by the aftermath of the collision, he had failed.

Even at first glance, Ryan was able to discern at least twenty other methods the older man could have easily avoided the collision (all of which had a significantly larger chance of success).

However, in all honesty, he shouldn't be surprised. His father was brash, a "just do it" sort of guy. Even under different circumstances, this was the solution he would, most likely, rely on.

In some ways, one could say the collision was premeditated.

It just required these specific circumstances to spur it into action.

Ryan vowed not to repeat his father's fateful mistake.

Still, history always found a way to repeat itself, and with the same general genetics as his father, the same fate could, one day, be bestowed upon Ryan.

Well, that was if he was actually allowed to even touch the car.

In recent times, Ryan's mother had essentially barred him from even being in close proximity to the 240sx, an unspoken rule that had been established ever since she had relocated it into a small, wooden shed just beyond the back fence of the backyard.

After the accident, it was as if she had effectively become the physical manifestation of paranoia. In fact, after notifying his peers of his mother's now-irritating nature and intrusive behavior, as well as transforming into what is conventionally known as a "helicopter mum", they all said she seemed like the epitome of "control-freaks".

A perfect example of obtrusiveness being taken to another level. One that was commonly reserved for overbearing parents.

However, that didn't deter him from sneaking out of the house at midnight to work on the Nissan, using parts he had bought with plain, physical cash.

In fact, it didn't deter him in the slightest.

Over the years, he had swapped out the original KA24 and the shock absorbers for an SR20DET and a set of adjustable coilovers respectively, did a ventilated brake disc conversion which was paired with a set of beefier brake pads and calipers. He also replaced the obsolescent bog-standard turbo with a larger twin-scroll turbo.

Those were just the main modifications he had done to the 240sx since his father's demise. While he did make some other minor changes, his (effectively) non-existent budget did limit his spending (while his father didn't mind forking out large quantities of cash for any modifications, his mother will never share his opinion), and as a result he had to focus on the more important components and forget the rest, or at least until he had the proper funding.

For a long time, he had been itching for a drive in what was now his car. He had been biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity (meaning: when his mum happened to be away) to take it out for a drive.

It was a childish urge, yes, but Ryan truly wanted to know what it was like to operate a car at full chat, as well as how his Nissan would respond. There were some practical advantages as well, with the ability to fine-tune the S13 and self-learning racing techniques being prominent examples.

And he had just the place to do this in.

An impromptu circuit had been paved into the back of their backyard (by his father, of course). Over the years, he had hypothesized about the perfect line to take through each and every corner of the "track", even going so far as to poring over the road surface, estimating the amount of grip he would have during the entrance, middle, and exit of each turn.

Even without having any prior experience, he was able to put together a hypothesized "racing theory". He only needed to go for a few test drives on his impromptu backyard track in order to finalize the first version of said theory.

How hard could that be?

Well, considering the inhibitions and mile-high hurdles that his mother had meticulously positioned between his 240 and the backyard track, the answer would probably be along the lines of "extraordinarily difficult".

Today, though, things were slightly different.

His mother had a doctor's appointment on the other side of the city, and would not be returning anytime soon.

Being a perceptive person herself, his mother would notice if something was off if she returned. She would, with little-to-no doubt, spot any new smears of burnt rubber on the curved stretch of asphalt that resided within their large backyard.

Luckily, since his mother tended to run off to a nearby bar for drinks after her doctor appointments, he hoped that the alcohol will work as a sufficient distraction. The cover of darkness might also assist with veiling what his mother would consider as clear signs of delinquency, or at least for the time being (or, in other words, enough time for Ryan to cover up his tracks).

With a degree of caution he had never exhibited before (it never hurt to be too careful), the nine-year-old child pried open the shed doors, walking slowly (and somewhat hesitantly) towards the driver's door of the 240.

Ryan knew that his caution was unnecessary, as he knew that his mother was away, and even if she returned early, the tell-tale exhaust roars and turbo blow-off noise would immediately give him away anyway.

For once, he was glad he had no neighbours (the only houses in close vicinity, besides his own, were abandoned, due to the fact that their previous inhabitants did not have the minimal financial backing to maintain those houses, unsurprising considering the region they lived in).

However, he couldn't help but let his thoughts drift off to the potential punishments his mother would have in store for him if he was caught.

Despite this, he slid the key into the slot just under the driver's side window, unlocking and opening the door and strapping himself in with the racing harnesses within moments of entering the car.

Taking a deep breath, he, once again, turned the key.

Only this time, it didn't unlock a door.

The sound of the waking SR20DET was enough to make him smile, a reassuring sound that suggested that it was seemingly prepared for any hardships that may be placed in front of it. After turning on the lights, he shifted into first and exited the shed, seemingly releasing his machine from a long-held chokehold.

Driving at an ungodly three kilometres per hour, the 240sx entered the large backyard, making its way onto the track that lay with its fences, halting just behind a distinct white line, the universal symbol for the starting location of any motor race.

Once more, the organic being behind the wheel closed his eyes, running through imaginary images of the course, mentally revising the location of each bump and indentation, each corner and straight. All of which he had burned into his mind when walking through the course, which he had done on a daily basis over the past decade (or since the moment he could walk).

Shifting into first, with the clutch still pinned, Ryan began building the revs, the frequency of the sound slowly transforming from a growl to a full-on roar. Once he reached 6,000 rpm, suddenly, he did something that many would have assumed was massively out-of-character. Dumping the clutch, he felt the rear tyres lose traction for a brief moment ( _damn…_ he thought. _That simply wasn't up-to-standard_ ), before gripping onto the dusty tarmac with a primal level of ferocity (unsurprising, as the tyres were from a proven brand), letting loose all of what he calculated was approximately four-hundred horsepower. His eyes sharpened as he saw the first corner approaching.

* * *

 _On the road just outside of the Coopers' residence_

The new Battle Machine DJ sneezed for the umpteenth time, clearly regretting his own stubborn choice of wearing a single layer of clothing, as he had believed that the weather reports were greatly exaggerated and was simply a light breeze.

As the Prostreet tournaments had been temporarily called off due to concerns regarding their popularity and reputation (unsurprising as they first appeared last year), he had been asked to create multiple pieces of film that could be used to advertise the said tournaments by interviewing a couple of famous tuning shops in Chicago. He had pictured the place as perpetually hot (despite not having any statistics to back that assumption up), being what seemed to be a high-temperature desert all year round (an idiotic and asinine assumption, he knew).

What he hadn't expected, was temperatures threatening to breach the sub-0 degree barrier.

While he may have, at first, been as excited as a child allowed free reign in a candy shop as he could take a look at the inner workings of some of the tuning shops which had helped with modifying the infinitely notorious cars of the Kings, or at least until the moment he was suddenly dropped off at the sidewalk, miles away from his final destination (a dinky motel located in a poor, crime-ridden region of the city). Now, though, (he still couldn't understand why they couldn't have just dropped him off at the location, even though the driver of the car suddenly decided he had a "family emergency" and had to leave him there, which weirdly coincided with the beginning of a car meet several miles south) he would've forfeited his privilege in an instant due to the weather.

However, if he simply refused to do such a task, the top dogs (who everyone knew were essentially puppets) at Battle Machine and the other Prostreet tournaments may fire him, which will undoubtedly result in the complete and utter annihilation of his career.

 _Why, oh why do I have to endure this misery_ , he thought sarcastically whilst he hugged himself, his veins as clear as day under the cover of his ice-white skin.

For a brief moment, he channeled all his hate towards the unknown person who created and ran the races from behind the scenes. The anonymous overseer, who had somehow converted the tournaments from your local street race to a full-blown, fully (well, semi-) legal, high stakes competition. One that made the cover of every major car magazine within the space of a year.

Surprisingly, despite the germinating notoriety of the tournaments (whose influence seemed to be ubiquitous at this point), there was little-to-no information available regarding who exactly the main organiser was. In fact, the amount of questions surrounding the unknown person _by far_ outweighed all of the confirmed information. Nobody even knew what gender the person classified as!

All that was currently known about the aforementioned anonymous overseer is that he (or she) is still alive, and his orders are echoed by the 'official' organisers (despite the fact that everyone knew better).

He did communicate with the big boss once (though admittedly through the puppet-like organisers), asking for a raise. From what he could gather from the short and concise message he received from his unknown employer, whoever it is, he (or she) was kind and understanding, telling him that all he had to do was volunteer to help the "organisers" out more often (hence why he was here).

As he rounded the corner, clenching his eyes shut once more as he inadvertently spasmed due to the cold, but suddenly, he froze (and in more than just one way).

The distinct and unmistakable sounds of tyre screeching and rev-matching reached him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

Well, it was more of an enraged battle cry than a whisper, but…

 _How the hell did I not hear it earlier?!_ The shivering man mentally berated himself, knowing full well that his lacklustre spatial awareness could've killed him off with ease. The fact that he also failed to notice the well-lit house (the only light source in the area, something he found rather intriguing) from which the noise emanated from was a true testament to how distracted he was.

However, as he was entrenched in his thoughts, his mind's eye kept on focusing on the eye-watering sounds of a car being pushed well and truly beyond its limit. Despite being a petrolhead himself, this was an unnatural reaction for him.

Somehow, these specific sounds of (what he identified as an SR20, as after all, he used to own an S14 Silvia himself) a car being driven with a high level of ferocity seemed a lot more...alluring than usual.

As if he was being compelled, he began walking towards the source of said noises. Soon, he broke into a run, the cold now forgotten, his pace quickening as he rapidly approached the sounds, with the noises growing in volume as he came closer. Eventually, he stopped in front of a fence (which encompassed what seemed to be a small track), his eyes widening and his jaw-dropping, completely gobsmacked.

Part of his shock was attributed to the fact that the backyard of the (relatively) small house contained what seemed to be a small, unlit circuit (even if it was tiny and far from perfect) in its backyard (albeit a thin and narrow track complete with white lines and tiny walls). However, most of his surprise was brought upon by the S13 hatch driving along the tiny track.

From what he could tell, it seemed to be one of the earlier versions of the 240SX, and was painted in an intriguing yet equally hideous shade of green, which, when matched together with the other mismatching colours present (with its bonnet painted black, both bumpers painted in gunmetal grey, the front-left fender painted in a lighter shade of grey, and the passenger-side door painted in yellow), seemed like a sight more associated with scrapyards than backyard tracks.

The unnoticed spectator, in his mind's eye, could imagine said odd colour combination actually working if the car was covered with decals, and would add this sort of "junkyard" appeal to it.

However, without said decals, the car truly seemed as if it belonged in a dump.

The only aesthetic component that seemed to be of any value whatsoever was the rims (and the Brembo brake calipers which peeked out from underneath. And the titanium exhaust tip).

However, even the intriguing exterior of the 240 wasn't the main feature of prominence. In fact, it was completely and utterly overshadowed.

It wasn't the car itself that was truly amazing, even though it seemed to have a massive reserve of grip and quite a lot of grunt on the straights, but the _driver_.

Of all the drivers he knew, on such a narrow and twisty course like this, none would attempt a full racing line, as you would need to get so close to the apex (meaning: two centimetres or less), and would instead focus on braking points and accelerator control, driving at the centre-point of the road.

The driver of the 240sx however, didn't seem to particularly mind getting close to any of the walls lining the apexes of the corners, somehow nailing the rev match every time, fully utilizing the grip of all four tyres on each and every corner, following what seemed to be a flawless line.

It also seemed to achieve this with such an unprecedented level of smoothness and _fluidity_. In fact, an aura seemed to encompass the car, something that, for some reason, kept pulling at his attention (though he dismissed it as a hallucination from the cold).

Somehow, both the driver and the car itself seemed...pure.

They seemed... _elusive_.

Ss he watched the 240 rocket around the course, its line began changing, its braking points delayed slightly more at each and every corner. Somehow, even though the spectator thought the car could not race around the course any faster, it was as though the S13's driver was improving right in front of his own eyes, cornering at a speed that he didn't think the age-old chassis was capable of.

He stared, completely gobsmacked, as the S13's encompassing aura slowly became brighter and larger, slowly enveloping him and the surrounding environment, before eventually establishing a ubiquitous, god-like presence.

And yet…

It still continued on growing, with both its speed and presence seemingly transcending reality, going faster and faster, farther and farther beyond what the man watching it thought was humanly possible, embodying everything that was great about racing.

It truly seemed as if the driver of the 240 was an amalgamation, the literal and physical manifestation of the significant values and virtues that made the racers of the highest caliber truly awe-inspiring, truly _great_.

He knew that what he was witnessing at this current moment could potentially be the birth of another legend, another _Ayrton Senna_ in the works.

With his fingers crossed, he hoped that the sight in front of him wasn't a hallucination of his own imagination, a product of the cold.

Without hesitation, he took off his industrial-sized backpack, unzipping the top and proceeding to pull out his bulky, professional-level video recorder, his hands shaking dangerously due to a mixture of excitement and shock, his appendages threatening to drop the recording tool on the ground.

This was something that he could not just _miss_.

After frantically adjusting the settings in accordance to the current lighting and weather, he began filming the green Nissan, not knowing how his released film (in the form of a Battle Machine advert) would put what seemed to be a preemptively planned scheme into motion, which would lead to a boy being challenged to a street race at the ripe old age of nine, and placing all of the Prostreet tournaments on the map, massively boosting their popularity, all of which would lead to the driver of the S13 to be invited to said tournaments sometime in the future, with a rather predictable result.

And thus began Ryan Cooper's street racing career.

* * *

 _November 14_ _th_ _, 2007_

The sun beamed down on the suburban desert, the glaring rays of light reflecting off the road and a small household which resided beside said stretch of road.

There wasn't a single person in sight.

To any passerby, there was no difference between said household and the surrounding buildings, all of which were abandoned.

The corpses of what used to be the potted plants lining the short driveway sat still, withering away, unsurprising when considering the fact that they have been left unattended to for a year.

The same could be said about the rest of the house's exterior.

If anyone were to enter the house (not that they could) or to simply peek through the windows, they would discover the large quantities of dust lining every floor, every surface, giving the place a dark, deserted atmosphere.

This is only built upon when one takes a look at the shed located just behind the backyard of the house, where if they peek through the small gaps and holes hidden within the surface of the wooden tiles, they would discover the wrecked hatchback which was contained within, its metallic coat still gleaming mockingly under the cover of dust and its interior still in near-perfect condition, at least if one were to disregard the thin veneer of dust covering every surface. Or the dried remnants of its previous owner, staring hauntingly back at anyone who dared to lay their eyes on the car. Even in its current state, it could be identified by the more knowledgeable petrolhead as a fifth generation Honda Civic, or an EG6 to be exact.

If anyone were to do more digging, they would discover that it had been bought from a wrecker's yard multiple years back and that it was involved in a fatal traffic accident yet another few years prior to its purchase.

With such knowledge, anyone with an inquisitive mind would ask, "Why would anyone buy a wrecked car and not repair it? Or at least use it for parts?"

Only a few people (all of which were knowledgeable regarding the circumstances which led to this point) knew the most eligible reasons explaining why its current owner would do such a thing. " _Commemoration, perhaps."_ They would explain.

Of course, that did not explain why it sat unattended for the past year.

In fact, the entire property lay undisturbed, plagued with a sense of peace and serenity that simply wouldn't be possible if it wasn't for the incapacitation of the current owner's two other family members.

One was six feet under due to his own hobby, and the other lay on her deathbed as the result of alcohol poisoning.

Only one of the three original family members was left, and he had left to leave his own legacy, his own mark on the same community that his father was so invested in once upon a time.

The house continued to stay silent, its once imposing aesthetic appearance now displaying signs of age, hinting towards its state of disrepair. It looked down with a sense of melancholy, even under the bright sun, which had become more of a curse than a source of joy for its sole and final inhabitant, who had conveniently disappeared.

Time passed by rather slowly with the sight unchanging, seemingly frozen in time.

However, that simply wasn't the case.

At first, it started off as a whisper. Then, over time, it became a full-on roar.

If anyone was around, they would've simply deduced it as one of the many illegal street races held in the area.

However, this time around, it simply wasn't the case.

The sight of a semi-truck, especially an expensive one at that, was an alien visage to anyone who lived around these parts (not that there was). Couple that with an equally expensive trailer which had a matching livery, it seemed strange that anyone with this level of financial stability would take this route, as there was another, more direct route one could take which essentially connected the same locations as this road, which was in a much better state and had a much lower chance of their arrival being heralded by thieves and bandits.

Finally, the bulky and luxurious Scania Streamline finally reached its destination, halting in front of the deteriorating house, its highly-reflective paint and modern exterior a stark contrast to the faded paint drooping on the exterior walls of the property.

As the Scania's engine ceased running, the driver-side door opened.

A man leaped out, proceeding to pull out an electronic key fob from his pocket. He pressed a button on its smooth plastic surface.

This caused the ramp of the trailer to lower slowly, exhibiting a degree of smoothness and ruthless fluidity that could only be achieved by something mechanical. As it lowered, it began to reveal a shape that was previously hidden behind the rectangular metallic face.

If anyone were to peer through the sheer darkness of the trailer's innards, they would easily spot the distinct, odd shade of green that adorned the unknown object, blanketed by the dense shadow cast by the roof of the trailer.

The last time the house saw the oddly-coloured _creature_ , smooth and muscular curves dominated its face, standing proud and strong as it prepared itself for battle.

Now, however, in their place, stood scratched paint and jagged edges, with some imperfections ranging from scratch marks and slight blemishes to irreparable scars such as a bent chassis and a cracked engine block, pieces of debris and shrapnel still stuck in various parts of the motor.

Once upon a time, it wore some of its battle scars with pride, with each mark and blemish bearing a long history, whereas now, they seemed to combine into a collective burden, one that was impossible to carry, with the vehicle as a whole now an unorganized, unrecognizable heap comprising of numerous metallic components and crumpled glass.

There were other differences as well.

The engine had been swapped out once more, as the SR20 had been deemed incapable of being competitive when racing against higher-caliber racers.

Now, an RB26DETT sat comfortably (if you ignore the jagged pieces of metal stuck to both the valve and timing cover, both of which were also slightly deformed) in the engine bay. It had previously powered a Nissan R34 GTR V-Spec Nür II, which had given up its beating heart shortly after transforming into a crumpled wreck. A lot had been done to it, with the final product making over seven-hundred kilowatts at the rear wheels, forcing the owner to swap in a limited-slip diff and stronger drive-shafts and axles.

The exterior of the car had been modified extensively as well, with a rocket-bunny widebody-kit (which allowed for wider rims and tyres, improving the grip substantially) coupled with a set of front canards, a large splitter, an equally well-sized rear diffuser, and said company's famous, albeit massive rear wing, branching off from where the rear bumper once was. The car had also undergone severe underbody augmentation in order to improve its handling.

These modifications were mandatory if Ryan wanted to race the same car (albeit with some last minute fine-tuning) for all event types.

For the grip events, he ran with wider versions of his previous set of aftermarket rims.

For the drag events, he swapped out the rear wheels for a set of drag radials and removed the rear wing.

For the speed challenge events, he basically ran his grip setup, though also with no rear wing and a loose(r) steering response ratio.

For the drift events, he just ran his grip setup, though he needed to swap out the aftermarket rear wheels for the wire-thin, bone-stock originals.

He knew for a fact that this wasn't exactly the most efficient way he could race, as it took valuable time to retune and modify the car to meet the required specifications for each event type, whilst he could simply drive another car and be on his merry way.

However, it simply didn't feel right if he raced any car other than his beloved and cherished 240.

With all his intellect, he was able to deduce how small-minded this simple decision was _with ease_.

He knew that people looked at him weirdly for choosing to participate in events in this manner, as this method wasn't exactly conventional, nor was it practical in any way, shape or form. He could also afford it, with quite a large sum of cash left over even if he bought and invested in other cars. In fact, he could probably afford a mansion with the large fortune he had amassed.

However.

He didn't race for money, nor did he race for fame or notoriety, even though by racing (and winning) against all the "Kings", he may have inadvertently amassed a large following, one that comprised of, essentially, the entire racing community, with some of his more...dedicated fans making outrageous claims, saying he was Senna reincarnated (even though he was born approximately three years prior to the death of the renowned consummate professional, one that even he himself idolised).

Of course, he had to act the part in order to not seem as if he was so egotistical that he had expected himself to win (not that he did. He won each race by the skin of his teeth), expressing false happiness and excitement in front of the audience due to being crowned, pretending to rejoice at the prospect of taking the pink slips from the five lynchpins of the Prostreet tournament. However, the latter was also not something he wished for, even though he did take a peek under the bonnets of each car.

After all, they were renowned for their performance, with many circulating rumours stating that they were using high-level performance parts that were inaccessible by the general public.

Still though, that did not mean Ryan was incapable of empathising with the kings, despite the fact that the media seemed to portray them to be above such _petty_ (note the sarcasm) emotions. So, as soon as the deciding events concluded (and once he had given the car a once over) and after the crowd had thinned out (which took quite a while, as he was bombarded by requests for his autograph and selfies by the audience), he would approach the king who he had just beaten moments ago.

For some reason, after being beaten, all of the kings stuck around after their defeat, standing in the corner with their shoulders slumped and their posture bent forwards, though an understandable recurring theme.

What he did (repeatedly) for each of the five kings was, for starters, to simply walk towards them, which garnered a multitude of different responses.

Nate Denver gritted his teeth, his face contorted into a primal, feral expression, Ray Krieger shot a hateful glare at him, Aki Kimura simply tensed up, Ryo Watanabe sent a glare his way as well, also tossing out a well-warranted, "Fuck off, dipshit!" (with a tone filled with hatred and anger), and Karol Monroe wrapped her arms tighter around herself, looking in any direction other than his, with remnants of tears (in the form of tear tracks) resting upon her cheeks.

What he did afterwards, however, was something none of them expected.

With a simple, "Catch", he tossed their set of keys directly towards them, and as he expected (as a quick response time is a mandatory attribute for any successful racer, either illegal or professional), all of them were able to catch it.

"I believe this is yours," He would say, a light smile resting on his face.

Ray Krieger expressed his shock and disbelief through his gobsmacked expression (which he continued to hold even as Ryan departed from his spot), Nate Denver held a similar dumbfounded expression (though eyes kept whipping back and forth between Ryan and the keys to his GTO), Karol Monroe tackled him in a hug, squeezing the air out of his lungs and burying her tear-stricken face in his shoulder, mumbling several forms of gratitude repetitively, Ryo's eyes widened, which he followed up with a small apology (judging by the slightly constipated expression on his face, it seemed to be the equivalent of groveling, to him at least) and a low-key invitation (which he effectively grumbled out) for him to join his team, and finally, Aki Kimura.

The recently renamed ex-drift King insisted on Ryan keeping his car, saying that he should, at the very least, keep it as a trophy (he did, however, request that he would be given permission to take it out for drives occasionally). Surprisingly, he had already sourced a S15 (which seemed to be in relatively good condition) between their final race and the time Ryan approached him.

Apparently, either way the battle may have turned out, he intended for this race to be his last.

Well, officially of course.

When they were conversing, Aki had told him that when he raced professionally, he felt...restrained, and didn't receive the same dopamine and adrenaline rush as he did when he raced illegally on the street. He planned on moving over to Fortune Valley, where he would attempt to form a crew (or rather a league, or whatever they call it over in that area) comprising of his most capable supporters, and would represent (and lead, from behind the scenes) the Noise Bomb organisation in the street racing scene, as opposed to continuing on with the Touge Union team.

Later on, many people had questioned why he had given back the Kings' cars instead of keeping them to himself, especially in the case of Ryo as in their deciding battle, the man had totaled his 240.

As they neared the finish line, the leader of the Apex Glide pitted him. Hard. This caused him to descend into an uncontrollable spin, forcing him to frantically manipulate the steering and throttle in an attempt to recover from this. However, between trying to stay on track and recovering from his spin, he had overlooked one detail.

Between the location where Ryo had pitted him and the finish line, there was a slight curb. While it did set a bottom line for the ride height, as it was on a straight, it did not make much of a difference to the racing. Well, as long as no contact is made.

Ryan did not expect his opponent to take advantage of this specific course feature.

It was a catastrophic mistake, with some unsurprising results.

The 240's left wheels slammed into the curb, holding them in place and causing the left side of the car to lift up, the car's low centre of gravity attempting -and failing- to prevent the following.

For a split second, the S13 flew, its only inhabitant momentarily receiving a taste of a zero-gravity environment.

The roof slammed onto the ground, the force of the impact enough to bend all four pillars and the roll cage, the glass shattering with a resounding _crack._

The car continued to roll, careering towards the finish, before finally landing on its wheels once more, just beyond the white line.

Right before the dark grey Evo (which was festooned with a seemingly infinite number of vinyls and decals) crossed said line, merely millimetres behind the 240.

He had won. He was finally crowned as the Street King, something he had dreamed of just a few weeks prior. But at _what cost?_

Nevertheless, it was a hollow victory.

He didn't have a car.

He was seething with rage.

He felt miserable.

He had all the right reasons to hate Ryo, from the man's less-than-flattering comments about him to his insidious manoeuvres which endangered both of their lives. To top it all of though, the "legendary" racer had destroyed his 240, a car that he cherished and held onto for the sake of sentiment, the only item which he had cared for over the course of his life. It was something that he thought of as _so much more_ than simply a tool, a method of transportation that would take him from point A to point B.

If he was anyone else, he would've held onto the Evo 10, shaming its now ex-owner in front of a large audience. In fact, he could see himself doing that under different circumstances, in another lifetime.

However, even in this case, he didn't want to hold onto it. He didn't feel the desire to keep it, neither for personal gain nor for the sake of vengeance.

He didn't want another car, nor did he want to torment a fellow human being, regardless of their previous actions.

He didn't want to bestow any form of suffering on anyone else, having experienced it on a regular basis during his unhappy childhood.

Having seen Ryo's care for his Evo 10 and the sentiment that lies within it (Ryan trained himself to be proficient at reading micro-expressions), Ryan immediately made his decision to spare him from any unnecessary pain or suffering.

As he pushed the wrecked 240 towards the end of the trailer, the light revealed the full extent of its damage.

His only item of sentiment was in pieces.

His family tree, torn apart.

And yet...

A smile still rested upon his face. A peculiar sight for anyone who knew of the circumstances which led to this moment.

 _Why would he be happy if his car is wrecked, up to the point where it is irreparable?_ Any sane person would ask.

However, his smile wasn't one of happiness, nor was it for excitement, as fixing cars with this degree of damage can potentially be a grueling process that requires time, effort, and money. In fact, it would be much cheaper to simply buy another 240sx and modify it to the same extent.

His smile represented _hope_.

It would take a long time to fully repair his 240sx, potentially costing him over hundreds of thousands of dollars, if that was even a mere possibility at all. Even then, the structural integrity of the chassis had already been compromised, fully barring the possibility of the car ever returning to its prime.

The same could be said about the engine.

However, Ryan was _tired_ of swapping out components for new ones. He wanted his S13 to seem _familiar_ , to feel homely instead of viewing it as an entirely new car. He wanted to be able to just have _one_ look at the car and instantly be reminded of the time when he was at his peak.

In short, he wanted to be able to reminisce about what he would inevitably remember as "the good 'ole days".

Whatever the cost may be (in both the literal and metaphorical sense), he would pay it without hesitation.

So that one day, maybe, just maybe, _he would be able to drive it once more_.

 **End**

* * *

 _ **Note: You may have noticed it had been mentioned that the Kings' cars held copious amounts of sentimental value sourced by the Kings themselves. For those more familiar with the game, they will immediately question why, as in almost (or perhaps) every King introduction, the announcer would claim that said King had bought a new car. In my plot, the Kings have been using these cars for the entirety of their rise to fame, or for the majority of it.**_

 _ **Also, I would like to apologise if my "nerding out" seems to contain too much information, and I will remove that section if you guys dislike it.**_

 _ **PLEASE review this story, as I'm still an amateur at fanfiction and I do need constructive criticism in order to improve. It would be much appreciated.**_

 _ **Mach1av3ll1an out!**_


End file.
